


Life is a cabaret, old chum.

by until_the_earth_is_free



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Cabaret, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cabarets, Charles You Slut, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Nazis, POV Erik, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Transphobia, Roommates, Trans Character, Trans Charles, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5887126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/until_the_earth_is_free/pseuds/until_the_earth_is_free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well, Herr Lehnsherr, you can tell people one of two things. The first is that you've moved in with a burlesque-dancing queer and we are living together in delicious sin. Or, you simply tell them that you've met a perfectly marvellous gentleman who has offered you a perfectly marvellous room for a perfectly marvellous rent cheque and we drink two fingers of scotch every night over a platonic game of chess before departing to our separate rooms by nine."</p><p>***</p><p>[a.k.a. an x-men / cabaret crossover fic feat. trans charles]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perfectly Marvellous

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: casual period-typical cissexism, use of the q-slur

 

 

 

 

 

 

Erik had never been to Berlin.

Growing up in America, he had heard his mother tell him stories about Berlin, stories as vibrant and eclectic as the Weimar art scene. The images in Erik's mind glowed with his mother's nostalgia, dynamic and spinning with cultural energy.

"I just wished I could have eaten breakfast at the Raske Bäckerei _einmal noch_ ," Edie would tell Erik, over and over.

"Don't talk like that, _Mutti_ ," Erik would reply, holding his mother's hand and giving her his most convincing smile. "I'm going to take you back to Berlin one day."

But medical bills were steep and transatlantic liner tickets were even more so. By the time that Erik had saved up enough from his editing job to pay for two passengers travelling from Washington D.C. to Germany, Edie had already passed away two months previously.

So Erik had quit his job as a copyeditor, packed up his typewriter and his clothes in a trunk, and taken the next liner across the ocean to his mother's homeland.

He'd never been that fond of Americans anyhow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Erik walked up the grimy steps of the Berlin townhouse and double-checked the address given to him by a rather unfriendly Swiss-accented train conductor. Trunk in one hand and suit jacket folded over the other arm's elbow, he knocked on the door.

There was no answer for about a minute.

When he was just deciding whether to knock again or give up altogether, he heard a quick succession of footsteps, followed by some scuffling noises on the other side of the door, which was suddenly swung open to reveal a short androgynous person in their early twenties.  Much to Erik's shock, they were wearing nothing but an over-sized man's dress shirt, long boxers and socks, an unlit cigarette dangling from their mouth. They had a mop of brown hair that could have been a curly bob at some point but had not seen a trim for a while.

"Kann ich Sie helfen?" asked the stranger, in the most appalling German accent Erik had ever witnessed. Their voice was a lot higher than he had anticipated.

"You're British?" Erik asked, in English, to put this poor linguistically challenged person out of their misery.

The stranger took the cigarette out of their mouth and pouted, revealing an upsettingly pink mouth.

"Is it that obvious?" they asked.

"Yes," Erik replied, simply. Then, "my name is Erik Lehnsherr."

"Charles," replied the person, holding out a delicately limp wrist for Erik to shake.

Erik took Charles' hand and secretly thanked heavens that this stranger had a gendered name.

"I'm looking for a Fraulein Darkholme," he told Charles. "I was told that she might have a room available."

Charles' blue eyes widened, but he didn't remark on Erik's statement. Instead, he asked, "do you have a light?"

Erik patted his pockets for a lighter, which he then took out and held, while he waited for Charles to replace the cigarette in his mouth and lean forward to light it. Charles took a step back and closed his eyes, letting a sigh of smoke escape his lips.

"Ah," he said, after a moment. "That's much better. Would you like to come in?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fortunately, the interior of the townhouse was not nearly as grimy as its exterior.  Apart from a few ghastly curtains and far too many piles of books, the house seemed quite inhabitable.  However, Erik quickly discovered that "a spare room" quite literally meant "a spare room", as he found himself being led into a fundamental broom closet with barely enough room for the bed inside.

"As you can see, it's very cosy," Charles remarked, actually sitting on the bed so that there would be enough room for Erik to enter through the room's doorway.

Erik stared at the bleak little room and looked back at Charles, not wanting to make any judgements until he was sure that it wasn't his only option.

"Where's Fraulein Darkholme?" he asked evasively.

Charles smiled demurely and lay back onto his back, blowing a puff of cigarette smoke up into the dusty air.

"Fifty marks including breakfast for the room," Charles announced.

Erik pursed his lips.

"I am hoping to tutor students in English for a living," he said slowly. "This room doesn't give me the space."

Charles sat up, opened the single window facing the street and tossed his cigarette.

"You can use my room for that," he said cheerfully. "And anything else you might need or want."

Erik blinked but did not otherwise acknowledge the insinuation.

"Won't Fraulein Darkholme mind?" he asked.

Charles actually laughed at that, tipping his chin back and arching his back with the movement of it.

"You still don't see it, do you, Herr Lehnsherr?" he asked, looking up at Erik with a smirk. "I'm Fraulein Darkholme."

Erik faltered, and then flushed darkly.

"I apologise, Fraulein," he said, sincerely. "I-"

"No, no, no, no," Charles interrupted, holding a pale hand up. "I much preferred you when you were flustered by my overt sexual advances, rather than my apparent gender."

Erik's flush deepened.

Charles smiled.

"That's more like it."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You don't have to say yes to the room now," Charles told Erik over his shoulder as he put the kettle on for some tea. "Or even ever. This is all on a weekly basis, you know."

Erik looked up from where he was nosing through Charles' living room bookshelves.

"I think I probably will say yes," Erik replied, walking back into the kitchen.

"What's stopping you from definitely saying yes?" Charles asked, as he opened up the cupboard to find two mugs.

Erik fidgeted uncomfortably.

"I just don't know how I would explain this arrangement to anyone else," he said.

Charles blinked.

"You mean, you don't know how you'd explain _me_ ," Charles replied coolly, turning off the stove and pouring out two mugs of tea.

Erik faltered.

"You must admit, Charles," he said. "It would seem quite peculiar."

"Peculiar?" Charles repeated, handing Erik a mug. "Not any more peculiar than anyone else living anywhere else. Why, I have a girlfriend from work who lives in a flat with three male lovers and her grandmother!"

"Where do you work?" Erik asked, scandalised.

"The Kit Kat Club," Charles replied. "I do cabaret. But you're missing the point."

"Well then, make your point quicker," Erik responded with a grin.

"Alright, _Herr Lehnsherr_ ," Charles said, taking a gulp of his tea. "My point is that you can tell people one of two things. The first is that you've moved in with a burlesque-dancing queer and that we are living together in delicious sin. Or, you simply tell them that you've met a perfectly marvellous gentleman who has offered you a perfectly marvellous room for a perfectly marvellous price and we drink two fingers of scotch every night over a platonic game of chess before departing to our separate rooms by nine."

Erik found himself suppressing a smile despite himself.

"And what if I want to tell them a compromise between the two?"

Charles pondered this, licking his lips in absent-mindedness.

"Well, that wouldn't be any fun at all," he remarked finally, his mouth quirking up on one side. "Where's the fun in simply telling them the truth?"

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Don't Tell Mama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik visits the club.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: a lot of alcohol, internalised transphobia, misgendering

 

 

 

 

 

It was nearly eleven-thirty in the morning when Charles staggered into the living room, wearing nothing but a light blue dress shirt and gartered stockings. Erik looked up from his typewriter for a moment to watch the other man clutch his head and light up a cigarette, before Erik looked back down and started typing again.

"What a ghastly noise," Charles complained, as he collapsed into an armchair in the corner of the room with his back to the window. "Is this a habit of yours?"

Erik's lip twitched.

"I'm a novelist," he said. "It's more of a job than anything."

Charles' eyebrows lifted.

"How fantastic!" he exclaimed, excitement somewhat dampened by the hangover. "I knew you were a writer; I just knew it. And Berlin is such a wonderful place to write."

Erik smiled awkwardly.

"I'm finding it difficult to get inspiration," he admitted, looking back at the awkward paragraph he had just hammered out that morning.

Charles clucked and shook his head.

"That's because you haven't seen much of Berlin yet," he told Erik seriously. "You ought to swing by the club this evening. There is no possible way you won't be desperately inspired by some of the characters there."

Erik bit the inside of his cheek pensively, while Charles flicked his cigarette out the window behind him.

"Erik," he said, now closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the armchair. "Would you please be a dear and make me a Prairie Oyster?"

"Isn't it a bit early for cocktails?" Erik asked distractedly, as he reread the last sentence he'd typed and tried to figure out why it didn't sound right.

Charles laughed, high and sweet like a debutante.

"It's a hangover cure," he explained. "Have you never heard of it? It's just a raw egg whooshed around in some Worcestershire Sauce. My mother practically lives on them."

Erik grimaced.

"Can't you make it yourself?" he asked irritably. "I'm a bit busy."

"Evidently," Charles replied with petulant sarcasm, but he got up and moved into the kitchen, where Erik heard various cupboards being opened and an egg being rapped hard against the counter. Charles came back into the living room, clutching a disgustingly brown and orange marbled whiskey glass.

"Cheers," he said, gesturing with the drink at Erik, before leaning his head back and tipping the horrible viscous contents down his own throat.

Erik tried not to stare, and tried typing out another sentence of his goddamn novel, as Charles walked around and peered over his shoulder at the page.

"Fastidious."

Erik jumped, accidentally typing a "t" in the process.

"What?" he demanded, turning his head to look at Charles, who was gazing intently at the paper sticking out of the typewriter.

"The word you're looking for is 'fastidious'," Charles explained.

Erik scowled.

"My character would never use the word 'fastidious'," Erik argued. "And this is all written from his perspective."

Charles licked his lips.

"Persnickety?" he suggested.

Erik's eyes narrowed.

"Maybe," he conceded, as he typed out Charles' word. "As a placeholder."

Charles grinned in triumph.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was five o'clock and Charles and Erik were eating supper. Charles had tried convincing Erik that it was lunch, but Erik had had none of it. Lunchtime ended at three, whether one had woken up at seven in the morning or at noon.

"Why did you decide to move to Berlin?" Charles asked, after a few minutes of eating their thin potato soup in silence.

"My mother grew up here," Erik replied shortly.

Charles sucked on his spoon thoughtfully.

"Are you close?" he asked, spoon still in his mouth.

"We were," Erik corrected. "Very."

Charles furrowed his brow in sympathy.

"I'm very sorry," he said, with the upmost sincerity.

Erik shrugged.

"And you?" he asked.

"I'm sorry?" Charles replied.

"Are you close with your mother?" Erik elaborated.

Charles smiled sadly.

"I work in a nightclub some six-hundred miles from my childhood home," he said. "No, I wouldn't call us 'close'."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Entering the Kit Kat Club felt like falling into an ocean except, instead of cold water, it was hot smoke and the smell of sweat and sex. Erik had never felt so out of his depth.

He elbowed his way through a throng of merry drunks towards the tables around the stage, which were heavily occupied by men in tailored suits and women in feather boas. Erik took his seat at the only empty table, and examined his surroundings.

There were about two dozen round tables seating up to four people each scattered in front of the stage, all equipped with drinks menus and brass telephones. Erik picked up his telephone to look at its construction and consider its purpose, when suddenly he heard a grating ringing noise and he almost dropped the receiver in surprise. With a sense of growing trepidation, he held the transmitter up to his ear.

" _Hallo_?"

"Erik!" a cheerful voice on the other end greeted him. "I'm so glad you came!"

"Charles?" Erik asked, finding himself almost shouting above the band warming up.

"Are you very excited for my act?" Charles asked.

"I suppose," Erik replied, not sure how else to respond.

"Aren't you going to wish me luck?" Charles demanded, coquettishly.

"Good luck, Charles," Erik said drily.

"Thank you ever so much!" Charles exclaimed, as if nothing in the world could have pleased him more than to have heard Erik speak those words. "Good luck to you too."

Erik frowned.

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"Well, there's a dashing young gentleman who's been staring at you ever since you entered the club," Charles said, conspiratorially. "And I think he's heading your way right now. Toodle oo!"

And, just like that, the line went dead.

Erik placed the handset back on the table, just as a tall blond man in maroon suspenders took the seat next to him.

"Möchtest du was trinken?" the blond asked Erik with a shy smile. [Would you like a drink?]

Erik smiled back, if a bit stiffly.

"Es kommt darauf an. Haben sie Malzwhiskey?" [That depends. Do they have malt whiskey?]

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time the Emcee had announced Charles' act, Erik had already collected quite a number of empty glasses. The blond man, who had introduced himself as Alex, had shifted his chair steadily closer to Erik's until Erik could feel the warmth of Alex's thigh against his, through two layers of fabric. But when he saw Charles enter the stage, Erik could feel barely anything at all.

There was no way that Charles wasn't breaking at least a dozen laws against indecency. His makeup alone was debauched enough: with dark, kohl-rimmed eyelids that brought out the blueness of his eyes and a smeared red-lipstick mouth. His small breasts were bound by a strip of black fabric underneath a complicated set of suspenders that crossed over his pale, flat chest and were attached to a pair of black shorts that stopped half-way down his thighs. If Erik concentrated hard enough, he could swear he could see a mole on Charles' right collarbone, dark against his creamy skin.

The band launched into some jazzy number with a catchy trumpet part, and Charles started to sing.

Erik's mouth went dry. Charles' voice was high and soft and it didn't belong in that smoky, sleazy club for all of Berlin to hear. It was the treble voice of a choirboy at Westminster Abbey: it was innocence incarnate.

Erik didn't even realise time had passed, until Charles looked at him and gave him a flirtatious wink, before running off the stage to a raucous applause.

And suddenly, it all was too much for Erik. The air was too thick; the room was too hot; the band was too loud; Alex's hand was held too close to Erik's crotch. He had to leave. Garbling an apology to an annoyed-looking Alex, Erik stumbled back through the club and out onto the street, where he leaned against the wall of the club and breathed.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, quietly breathing, until a familiar British voice spoke from the doorway.

"What did you think?"

Erik turned around, to see Charles, now wearing a dark-grey overcoat over his stage clothes, his lipstick even more smeared than it had been on stage. Erik caught sight of a small bruise forming on the side of Charles' neck and he covered up his scowl by taking out a cigarette and lighting it.

"You were great," he told Charles, after he'd taken a puff of his cigarette.

"I can't help but notice you left alone," Charles said, off-handedly with a smirk. "Why didn't you go with Alex?"

Erik sucked on his cigarette and let the smoke burn his throat and lungs.

"Didn't feel like it," he said with feigned nonchalance.

"Shame," Charles replied. "He's a good fuck."

Erik looked up sharply, to see Charles staring back at him, an inexplicably defiant expression on his soft features.

"I didn't feel like it," Erik repeated sourly.

Charles took a step forward.

"Is it because he's a man?" he demanded, crossing his arms.

"No," Erik replied, but he wasn't quite sure why.

Charles sighed.

"You're absolutely insufferable," he told Erik, as he raised a delicate hand up to Erik's face and took the cigarette from his mouth. Erik watched, immobile, as Charles took a quick drag from it and then tossed it carelessly over his shoulder.

"Hey-" Erik began, in indignation, before Charles took another step forward and collided his mouth with Erik's.

More out of shock than anything, Erik leapt back, stumbling back into the wall of the club as he did so.

"What are you doing?" he yelped.

Charles furrowed his brow.

"Please, Erik," he said, not answering Erik's question. "Fuck me."

Erik felt his face catch fire.

"No," he said, the moment he was capable of language again.

Charles scowled.

"I don't understand," he said, and for a moment he looked very young, far too young to be working at a club like this. "You obviously want me."

Erik cleared his throat, but made no corrections to Charles' statement.

"Is it because I'm a man?" Charles asked.

"No," Erik said quickly.

"Because you can close your eyes and call me Charlotte if you want-"

"Enough!"

Charles blanched, and took a step back.

"You're drunk, Charles," Erik said. "We both are. I'm not having this conversation with you. I'm going home."

And then he crossed the street and headed back to the townhouse, without looking back once to watch Charles light up another cigarette, wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, and re-enter the club.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> charles' outfit is heavily influenced by alan cumming's as the emcee in the stage production of cabaret


	3. Mein Lieber Herr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles apologises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I've been doing a lot of thinking about where I want this story to end up and I realise that, in order to achieve my aims in terms of plot, I have to put Erik through quite a lot.
> 
> This is a story set in 1930s Berlin, and Erik Lehnsherr is canonically Jewish. Therefore, this chapter (and the rest of this story) will have some pretty harsh anti-semitic themes. Please be warned, and, if you think I have handled any such themes insensitively / inaccurately, please let me know and I will do my best to correct myself.

 

 

 

 

 

Erik left the townhouse at nine the next morning to search for a new place to stay, when Charles was not yet awake. He took the cool, brisk walk to the train station where he'd arrived two days ago, and found himself inquiring at the ticket office for cheap apartment space in the city.

" _Es gibt keinen Raum mehr hier für einen anderen verdammten Jude_ ," the man behind the glass window had told Erik with a sneer. [There's no more room here for another damned Jew.]

Clenching his knuckles until they turned white, Erik turned around and stalked out of the ticket office, amidst the sound of jeers. He walked and walked until he'd crossed the Spree river twice and the ringing in his ears had been replaced by a gnawing in his stomach, and he'd given up and headed back to Charles'.

By the time he'd actually reached the townhouse, it was almost four in the afternoon. Erik considered staying out for another hour, just to avoid any conversation with Charles, but his feet were on the verge of being unbearably sore and he hadn't eaten since breakfast. With a defeated growl at his own body's betrayal, he opened the front door.

Erik walked into the living room, expecting to find a still-hung-over Charles draped over an armchair in his undergarments. Instead, he found a note on the breakfast table, addressed to him.

_Dearest Erik,_

_I do apologise for my behaviour last night. (I am sure that you understand well what a couple of Mary Pickfords can do to a fellow!) I have left a pot of stew on the stove as a peace offering. Feel free to judge me on my appalling attempt at German cuisine._

_Additionally--- I have spoken to our band's pianist, Heinrich McCoy, and he would be very much interested in taking English lessons from you. I told him that you would be willing to meet him at our house tomorrow at two o'clock. I do hope that this is acceptable to you._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Charles_

Erik read the note twice over, before placing it back down on the table and walking into the kitchen where, sure enough, there was a pot of stew sitting on the stove. He switched on the stove to heat up the pot, and considered his options.

Charles might have been a detestable brat of a roommate, but at least he had some sense of common courtesy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

With Charles out of the house, Erik managed to get a whole ten more pages of his novel typed up that evening. This arrangement really could work for him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Heinrich McCoy knocked on the front door at two o'clock the next day exactly, wearing a light grey waistcoat and a nervous expression. Erik ushered the man into the living room, and tried smiling to alleviate the pianist's apprehension. Unfortunately, that seemed to scare Heinrich more than anything, so Erik settled for a neutral, studious expression.

"So, Mr McCoy," Erik started, tidying away his typewriter and manuscript as Heinrich took a seat. "How much English do you know already?"

"A little," Heinrich admitted, his vowels light with his German accent. "My father... American."

"Your father was American?" Erik confirmed.

" _Ja._ Yes," Heinrich replied, stumbling over his words. " _Aber,_ I want to... America work?"

And so, in this very stilted way, Erik and Heinrich had a full conversation with minimal German, about Heinrich's piano-playing, and his family, and even about Erik's life back in America. Erik found himself actually enjoying the company: Heinrich seemed like a decent enough fellow with a solid work ethic and quick understanding of grammar.

"And now you live here with Charles?" Heinrich asked, about forty-five minutes later, his accent much improved.

"For the foreseeable future, yes," Erik replied, nodding.

"I am a little... _überrascht_?"

"'Surprised'," Erik supplied. "Why are you surprised?"

"Surprised," Heinrich repeated. "I am surprised because we thought that Charles was moving back to England, months before. I am surprised that he stays here."

It was at that moment that Charles entered the living room, wearing an enormous wool jumper and white ankle socks. Erik had just enough time to wonder if the man even owned a pair of trousers before Charles spoke.

"Why, Heinrich," he said, with a flirtatious smile, despite the bags under his eyes. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to get rid of me."

Heinrich blushed and pushed his spectacles back up his nose.

"Nein, nein," he replied, turning around to look at the entrant. "You are always a pleasure to accompany, Charles."

Charles laughed.

"I wasn't fishing, but thank you," he said, with the grace of a famous ballet dancer receiving a bouquet of flowers. "Tea, anyone?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

That afternoon, when Heinrich had left and Charles and Erik were eating supper together, Charles asked if Erik wanted to come back to the club and watch that evening's show. Erik took a long sip of his water before politely declining the offer and ignoring the way Charles' shoulders drooped when he did so.

He wrote another twelve pages of his novel that night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Erik entered the living room to quite a shock.

Charles was already sitting at the breakfast table, fully dressed in navy-blue slacks and a white button-up, sporting the most hideous black-eye. His pale hands were clasped against a mug of tea that was ever so slightly rattling against the table.

"Charles?" Erik exclaimed. "What are you doing up this early?"

It was a fair question. Eight in the morning was hardly a time of day that Charles typically acknowledged, let alone witnessed.

Charles looked up at Erik with a gentle furrow in his brow, as if he hadn't noticed Erik's presence until that moment.

"Oh, good morning, Erik," he replied, his voice higher and tighter than usual. "Would you like some tea?"

"I can make it myself later," Erik replied, slowly, taking a seat across from Charles. "Are you alright?"

Charles smiled at Erik, and Erik had a sudden image of what Charles would look like as an old man, tired and worn. If Charles would even make it to old age, that was.

"Just a small headache, my friend," Charles said.

"Yes, I can imagine a blow to the skull would do that to you," Erik replied wryly.

Charles blinked.

"I don't want to talk about this with you," he said, every ounce the fussy British gentleman that his accent implied.

Erik narrowed his eyes.

"Charles-"

" _Please_ , Erik!"

Erik stiffened. He watched Charles close his eyes and take a sip of his tea, jaw clenched. Then, as if none of the conversation had already occurred, Charles opened his eyes and smiled brightly.

"Have you seen the _Kronprinzenpalais_ yet?" he asked.

"What?"

"The _Kronprinzenpalais_ ," Charles repeated. "It's a gallery in Berlin for living artists, all fantastic modern stuff. Do you like art?"

"I suppose," Erik replied, his head still reeling from the sudden shift in conversation.

"We should go visit it today," Charles said. "You came here to see Berlin. We should see Berlin. We could make a day trip of it! I can make sandwiches."

Erik blinked.

"Sure," he said, but only because Charles was looking at him with such wide eyes and such a hopefully coy smile that Erik could hardly bear it.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. If They Could See Him Through My Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik go to the art museum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update. my only excuse is that i'm a piece of shit
> 
> please take this unusually long chapter as a peace offering
> 
> WARNINGS FOR: period typical sexism / transphobia, unsafe binding methods

 

 

 

 

 

They were an odd-looking pair: Erik in his dark grey suit and a black-eyed Charles in his brown-patterned sweater and navy slacks. From a distance, they looked like the typical pair of gentlemen friends going for a walk through Berlin. Erik found himself tense in the fear that someone might look closer and see Charles' delicate hourglass figure that was present despite his boxy sweater.

However, Charles did not seem to share the same apprehensions as Erik, and he had no qualms about drawing attention to himself as he shot his mouth off in the most animated way possible: speaking about the wonders of Berlin and how terribly excited he was that he could witness Erik experience the city for the first time. On another day, Erik might have been tempted to quieten Charles, but it brought Erik so much relief to see Charles smile and chatter after witnessing his quiet, twitchy disposition that morning.

It was a long, brisk walk to the _Kronprinzenpalais_ , but Erik had never been one to resent long walks, especially when his companion was so lively he didn't have to say anything back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I think I've fallen in love," Charles said, suddenly.

The art gallery was not very busy that day: in fact, Erik and Charles were alone when they entered the room where Charles stopped still in the doorway, his mouth parted gently and his eyes wide. As if in a trance, Charles moved as though he was gliding towards the painting that had captured his attention and stood about six feet from it without breaking eye contact with the picture once. Erik followed dutifully behind, and peered curiously at the painting.

It was an enormous painting, about a foot longer than Charles was tall, and _dynamic_. It depicted a group of blue horses against and orange sky painted in that sort of vague way that Erik didn't really understand the appeal of.

"It's called ' _Der Turm der blauen Pferde_ '," Erik told Charles, reading off from the plaque to the right of the painting. "It means 'The Tower of Blue Horses'."

Charles hummed appreciatively, still staring in rapture at the painting.

Erik looked back at the painting. It was a decent piece of art, he guessed.

Charles was still looking at the painting, his lips softening into the barest hint of a smile.

Erik wondered why this particular painting was so desperately enthralling, when Charles could just look at his own eyes in a mirror and see a brighter, more convincing colour of blue.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Tell me about your childhood."

Charles and Erik were having their lunch a cafe just around the corner from the art gallery, sitting by a window while a light fall of rain was just starting to come down.

Erik coughed at the imperative nature of Charles' attempt at small talk.

"Well, it was just my mother and I for the most of it, in Washington D.C.," Erik said. "It was idyllic."

He bit into his sandwich then, feeling oddly like he'd said too much.

Charles followed suit, taking a rather messy bite from his sandwich, causing bits of lettuce to fall back onto his plate and mustard to squeeze out onto his fingers. Erik snorted, as he watched Charles putting his sandwich back down and licking his lips while chewing. Erik passed him a napkin before he could start on sucking his fingers, which Erik really didn't want to have to witness. At least not in public.

"What about your childhood?" Erik asked, in an attempt to distract himself from a train of thought that could not possibly lead anywhere good. "You're obviously from England, or at least your family is."

Charles smiled, and swallowed his mouthful.

"Oxford," he said with an aristocratic smirk. "Lovely town. I was even going to go to university there."

Erik started.

"What stopped you?"

Charles sighed and took a sip of his glass of riesling.

"My mother. University is no place for a lady to find a husband, apparently."

"Neither is the Kit Kat Club," Erik commented.

Charles chuckled.

"Well, she thinks I'm on a tour of Europe with a couple of my school chums," he said with a light laugh. "Although, that was about a year and a half ago. I do wonder what she thinks I'm doing now."

Erik frowned.

"You must think I'm the most ridiculously spoilt thing," Charles said, leaning back and taking another sip of his wine.

"Not at all," Erik said, truthfully. "I think it's brave."

Charles smiled slowly, and didn't stop smiling until he'd finished his glass of wine and placed it back on the table.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The moment they had arrived back at the townhouse that afternoon, Charles removed his brown sweater and threw it carelessly onto an armchair in the corner of the living room. He then proceeded to shrug out of his suspenders, letting them dangle freely from the buttons on the waist of his trousers.

"I have about two hours before I've got to be at the club," Charles informed Erik, as he started to unbutton his shirt.

"Alright," Erik replied in a very dry voice, turning around to take off his suit jacket and hang it up on the coat stand.

When he had turned around again, Charles was buttoning his shirt back up again, a long strip of white linen over his shoulder. Erik quelled his disappointment with the much more urgent feeling of relief, as well as the very confusing feelings raised by having Charles' bare breasts visible through his white shirt.

However, Erik managed to move his gaze up to meet Charles', who was now looking at him with an expression of twitchy amusement that caused Erik to flush.

Thankfully, Charles did not choose to make any comments on the matter. What he said instead was this.

"Would you care to join me for a game of chess?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was only when Erik had followed Charles into his bedroom that he realised that this was the first time he had entered or even seen the other man's room.

It was almost exactly what he would have expected: various stockings and shirts scattered about the floor and the bed, with one black tie even still fastened tightly to one of the iron bars of Charles' bed frame. Erik could count at least four empty whiskey glasses about the room, three of which containing cigarette stubs and ash, but what really caught his eye was the pile of books and magazines in one corner of the room.

" _Reflection of Electrons by a Crystal of Nickel_ ," Erik read, picking up a journal that had been left open atop the pile.

Charles shrugged sheepishly.

"It's just this new theory that physicists have been developing," he said, casually. "A new way of describing matter, if you will."

"As a wave?" Erik asked, sceptically, as he scanned the page of complicated-looking diagrams.

"I don't want to bore you," Charles replied, waving one hand and producing a glass of scotch with the other.

"You're not boring me," Erik said quickly, accepting the glass. "Even if I don't understand quantum physics, I understand your passion for it."

"Well then," Charles said, pouring himself a glass of scotch and then sitting cross-legged on the floor like a long-limbed school child. "I hope you realise you've given me full permission to rattle away."

Charles really wasn't lying. Erik sat down and listened to the other man speak about someone called de Broglie and two Americans called Davisson and Germer and someone else called Schrödinger and something about a cat, but wait Charles was getting off tangent, where was he, oh yes, linear partial differentiation, and so on. Erik found himself toying with the glass of scotch in his hand and tuning out Charles' words, only focussing in on the man's pink lips as they moved at an alarming speed, yet still managing to deliver each word with care, like a pastor shaking hands with members of the congregation as they leave the church.

Erik really had to use that simile in his novel somewhere.

"Erik?"

Erik jumped, but managed to refrain from spilling scotch all over his trousers.

"Yes?" he replied, flushing.

Charles was looking back at him with that terrible smirk with whom Erik seemed to have gotten deeply acquainted that day.

"White or black?"

 

The first game lasted over an hour, and Charles had won. The second game had only lasted thirty-two minutes, and had ended in a stalemate.

Charles left the townhouse at six, after spending about ten minutes in the bathroom tending to his darkening black eye with some weak make-up powder, before swearing and muttering something like "I'm sure the girls can fix me up at the club".

That night, Erik worked on his novel and managed to write an entire twenty pages and introduce a new character, a physicist. It was three in the morning when he lit a cigarette and called it a night, before retiring to his bedroom and tried not to feel worried that Charles still hadn't come home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Erik's writing streak continued for the next week. He had never written so much in so short a time since his college days, when everything he wrote was alcohol-soused and shit. If he kept up this speed and quality in his writing, his great contribution to German-American fiction could be sent to editing within the month.

Charles' black eye turned from purple to green to yellow to normal Charles-colour.

Hank's English was improving exponentially, and the student even mentioned a neighbour who might also want English lessons from Erik, forecasting an actual liveable income somewhere in Erik's future.

Which was why it was such a pity that, despite the fact that sober Erik had promised himself he would never do it again, a much more inebriated Erik decided to ruin all the good luck of the previous week by sitting at the bar of the Kit Kat Club on a Saturday night, nursing his third beer and letting some blonde woman in a white feather boa grind up against him while he watched the stage, waiting for Charles to come on.

Erik was _concerned_ for Charles' health, that's what it was. He had to keep an eye on the poor man.  Whether because of the constant drinking or the fits of coughing that seemed to be caused by his chest-binding, or the fact that Erik still had no idea where Charles got that black-eye from- Erik was concerned.

Erik could keep Charles safe, even if Charles wouldn't even try to look after himself. Erik could-

Charles had come on stage. Charles was wearing an open leather jacket and a lot of lace. Charles had rouge on his cheeks and a cigarette in his hand. Charles, singing, voice high and sweet, rising above the club like cigarette smoke, singing, singing-

Erik quickly downed the rest of his beer, spilling some of it on himself and, possibly, on the blonde next to him, if her outraged squawk was any indication, and he staggered his way through the crowd and towards the stage.

Wow. The distance from the bar to the stage was really quite vast, especially when one considered the fact that the functionality of Erik's legs always became a bit inconsistent after the third drink. By the time Erik had pushed through the crowds of cabaret-goers to get to the front, Charles had gone, to rapturous applause and several wolf-whistles.

The backstage of the Kit Kat Club was difficult to navigate when it was dark and one was drunk. How did Charles manage to do this every night?

"Erik?"

Erik turned around quickly, which caused his head to spin.

Unfortunately, the man in front of him was not Charles. He was, however, someone who could take him to Charles.

"Heinrich!" Erik greeted. "Do you know where Charles is?"

" _Ja_ ," Heinrich replied. "He always goes outside for _eine_ _Zigarette_ after performing."

" _Danke,_ thank you," Erik replied, as he stumbled along to the nearest exit, which he pushed open with his entire body weight, causing himself to practically topple out of the door, onto a familiar figure standing outside.

"Erik!" a familiar British voice exclaimed, as Erik tried to disentangle his arms from Charles' and regain his sense of dignity.

"Charles," he replied, with a soft hiccup. "Good song."

"Thank you," Charles said. "What are you doing at the club?"

"I wanted to see you," Erik said, truthfully. It was quite cold outside without Charles' chest pressed against his.

"That's very flattering," Charles replied. "Although, you could have merely waited until tomorrow to see me."

Erik frowned.

"No," he said plainly. Then, "I finished a chapter tonight."

"That's wonderful!" Charles exclaimed. "We ought to celebrate."

"I did," Erik said. "And then I decided to come and see you."

Charles laughed.

"Oh, Erik," he said with a fond sigh. "I think we ought to get you home soon."

Erik shook his head vehemently.

"That's not how this works," he told Charles. "I'm supposed to look after you."

The laughter didn't fade from Charles' upsettingly blue eyes.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because... Because you don't belong here."

"Belong where?" Charles asked, his blue eyes hardening somewhat.

"Here," Erik repeated, gesturing around the street. "You're too good for this. You belong with Davisson and Germer and all the rest of them."

The moment he said it, Erik knew he had messed up.

However, Charles, instead of getting pissed off at Erik's thinly-veiled insult of his lifestyle and occupation, said something completely unexpected.

"You remembered their names?" Charles asked quietly.

"Of course," Erik replied.

There was a silence, during which Erik shivered from a cold he didn't really feel.

Then, because he was drunk and therefore allowed to make terrible decisions, Erik looked at Charles with a tender determination.

"I would really like to kiss you right now," Erik said.

Charles gave no indication that he heard, except an almost imperceptible widening of his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Erik said, because he felt like that was the right thing to say.

"Don't be," Charles replied, suddenly. "I would like to kiss you too. I have been wanting it for a while. But it is cold and late and you are very drunk and we ought to be getting home."

Erik nodded numbly.

"Shall we go, then?" Erik asked, holding out a trembling arm for Charles to grasp, as they made their slow, silent way through the streets of Berlin.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the sexual tension continues (dont worry kids it will all be over soon)


	5. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: serious homophobia (including a german homophobic slur), mentions of persecution of the Jews and of the disabled, implied transphobia

 

 

 

 

 

Erik woke up, slowly, which was unusual for him.  He was faintly aware of a yellow streak of light dashed across his torso from the crack in the curtains as he yawned and opened his eyes.  He stretched, lamenting his headache and the fact that he seemed to have worn his starchy day-clothes to bed, before he remembered why he hadn't changed into his night clothes.

He sat up in his bed, feeling like he had just fallen head-first into consciousness, as he recalled the events of last night.

When he had finally stirred up the courage to face Charles, he swapped his old wrinkled shirt for a new one, and opened his bedroom door and walked into the living room.

There, he saw Charles sitting at the breakfast table, wearing a navy-blue jumper and long white boxers, holding a mug of tea.  When Erik sat down across the table, Charles looked up and smiled a weak greeting at his friend, before taking a great gulp of tea.

Erik was about to apologise for last night, or at least broach the subject, when he noticed something that looked suspiciously like blood under Charles' fingernails.

"What is this?" he demanded, grabbing Charles' left hand and inspecting the dark red stuff that speckled his friend's hands.

Charles flinched at the contact and withdrew his hand.

"It's nothing," he replied, before replacing his hand in his lap and rubbing it with his right hand, as if trying to rub Erik's touch off.

"Charles," Erik said slowly.  "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" Charles exclaimed, his voice a semitone higher than usual.

This was when Erik noticed the broken window.

His ears buzzing, he got up from his chair and crossed the room to where the living room overlooked the street.  The window looked pretty much ordinary, except for the fact that the bottom right square was completely bereft of glass.

There weren’t any glass shards on the windowsill or on the floor that Erik could see.  It was almost as if the window pane had spontaneously vanished.

“What the hell happened?” Erik asked, turning around to look at Charles, who was grasping his mug of tea quite nervously.

“Please don’t be angry,” Charles replied quickly.

Erik raised an eyebrow.

“Did you break this window?” he asked, more curious than anything.

“Not quite.  Someone broke it for us at about ten o’clock this morning.”

Erik frowned, and felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest.

“Is that blood under your fingernails?” he asked, horror rising in his throat.

“This?” Charles replied, inspecting the nails of his right hand.  “It’s paint.”

“Paint?”

“They wrote some pretty awful stuff on the front door,” Charles explained.  “I tried to clean it off before you woke up, but-”

Erik had already started running across the room to the front door, which he flung open in complete disregard of the cold, and stared at the half-faded red word scrawled across the door.

_ SCHWUCHTELN.  
_

Erik’s face went cold.  He blinked once, then twice, before re-entering the house and closing the awful door behind him.  Charles had stood up, and was watching him from the living room.

“Berlin isn’t safe for us anymore, Erik,” Charles said quietly.  “I think it would be best if you were to go back to America.”

Erik scoffed.

“Erik, this is serious!” Charles shouted, in an uncomfortably uncharacteristic moment of anger.  Then, “I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”

Erik glared at Charles.

“I appreciate your concern,” he said, scathingly.  “But I was queer before I met you.”

Charles shook his head in frustration.

“Please, Erik.  Have you read the newspapers?  It’s not just us, it’s Jews, the disabled…  And this isn’t going to stop, don’t you see?”

“And you,” Erik said.  “Where will you go, then?”

Charles crossed his arms.

“I’m not going to do anything,” he said.  “I am going to stay here.”

Erik gritted his teeth.

“You’re a hypocrite,” he told Charles.

“And you will die here just to prove a point.”

Erik blinked.

“No,” he said.  “Not here.”

And then he picked up his typewriter from where it had been sitting in the corner of the living room and went into his room to pack.  It took him only about three minutes: he had scarce few possessions and he was very unsentimental when he wanted to leave.

Still viciously hungover, he fastened the clasps on his trunk shut and re-entered the living room, to see Charles, sitting back at the table and clutching his tea.

Charles opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then thought better of it.

For a moment, Erik was struck by the realisation that he had ever wanted to kiss anyone more than he wanted to kiss Charles at that moment.  Then, he turned and left the house, closing the door behind him.

 

 

* * *

 

Erik went to Heinrich’s apartment, which was shared between two other members of the Kit Kat Club band and himself.  Regretfully, he handed back most of the money that Heinrich had paid him for English lessons in exchange for a week on the couch.

He finished his novel in six days.

Every morning, he visited the  _ Raske Bäckerei _ for breakfast.  He discovered that he hated weak tea.

Without Charles, Berlin just felt like an unfamiliar Washington D.C.

On the seventh day without Charles, he slid his finished manuscript into a manilla envelope, which he packed into his briefcase.

“Heinrich,” he said, when the pianist had come home that evening.  “Morgen fahre ich wieder nach Amerika.”  [Tomorrow, I’m going back to America.]

Heinrich blinked, still holding his wet umbrella in one hand.

“Then, I’m coming with you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_ Six Months Later; New York City _

 

It was another long Saturday of signing copies of his novel at another uncomfortably crowded Barnes & Noble in the city.  Erik sighed, as he handed a newly-autographed book back to the woman standing in front of his table and heard a ghost of his mother's voice chuckle and say something like, “only you would resent success, Erik.”

As the woman thanked him and left, the line shuffled forward and Erik saw a pale hand pass him a well-worn copy of his all-too familiar novel.

“To whom shall I address this?” he asked monotonously, flipping the book open to its title page.

“How about to an old friend?” a very familiar voice replied.

Erik’s eyes flew up to meet those blue eyes that had been haunting him for the past six months.  In shock, he stared at the figure in front of him.  It was definitely Charles, although he could barely recognise him in his modest, blue cotton dress, wearing lipstick that was cleanly applied.

“Oh,” Erik said.

Charles smiled, with something akin to relief in his eyes.

“Would you like to get some coffee after this?” he asked, and Erik realised that, even though Charles looked very lady-like now, he still spoke with the soft slyness of a man who knew what he wanted.

“Uh,” Erik said, glancing behind Charles at the desperately long queue of readers.  “I’ll only be done in about an hour.”

“I’ll wait for you in the café across the street, then,” Charles replied, and then he spun out of the store, while Erik still held onto his copy of the book.

 

 

* * *

 

Not forty-five minutes later, Erik arrived at the café to see Charles sitting demurely at a table in the corner.

“Hello, Erik!” Charles greeted with a jaunty smile.

“Hello, Charles,” Erik replied, sitting down at the table.  “Or shall I call you Miss Darkholme?”

“Charles is fine,” he said quickly, a light blush dusting his cheeks.  “Darkholme isn’t even my last name anyway.  It’s Xavier, and I must say, I thought your book was absolutely splendid.  However, I did take issue with your ending.  I don’t understand why, in the epilogue, Nick returned to the city where he had suffered so much throughout the novel.  It just didn’t make sense to me.”

Erik blinked.

“People who have suffered greatly almost never do things that make sense,” he said.  And then, as if to prove his point, he smiled at Charles and said, 

“My apartment is not very far.  Would you like to come see it?”

 

 

* * *

 

“You have a simply lovely flat,” Charles complimented, as they entered Erik's apartment, which was situated about six blocks away in the West Village.  “Do you live alone?”

“Yes,” Erik replied.  “Heinrich was here for the first few months, until he got snapped up by some music academy in Boston.”

Charles' eyes lit up.

“Oh Heinrich!” Charles exclaimed.  “I have missed him terribly.  But I’m sure he's doing wonderfully in Boston.”

Erik cleared his throat.

“And you?” he asked.  “Do you live alone?  I had no idea you were planning on moving to America.”

Charles tilted his head and smiled sadly.

“Well, I’m not really.  I’m only here on a jolly holiday with my sister.”

Erik frowned.

“Soon after you left, I realised how ridiculous I was being and returned to England to live with my mother again,” Charles elaborated.

“Oh,” Erik said.  He wasn't sure if it would be rude to offer his condolences.

“Hence the quite enormous disposable income just for babysitting my debutante little sister,” Charles explained with an airy laugh.

“And hence the dress,” Erik added.

Charles' features softened into something like melancholy.

“And hence the dress,” he repeated, quietly.

“Charles-”

“You didn't say goodbye, Erik,” Charles interrupted, his voice low.  “How could you?  You left, and you didn't say goodbye.”

Erik swallowed, slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Charles' bottom lip trembled.

“I missed you so much,” Charles whispered.  “I missed you so bloody much.”

Erik faltered.

Then,

“You haven't been drinking, have you?” Erik asked, quietly.

“Not for five months,” Charles replied, with a dry sniff.

“Good,” said Erik, and he stepped forward to cup Charles’ face in his hands, before he leant down and kissed him, slowly.

“Erik,” Charles gasped, pulling away for a moment.  “Erik, I’m sorry, please-”

“Out,” Erik said, moving his hands to Charles’ hair and pressing a trail of secondhand lipstick kisses down Charles’ marble-white neck.

“Pardon?” Charles whispered.

“I want you out of this  _ gottverdammtes _ dress,” Erik growled, before disentangling his hands from Charles’ curls and bringing them down to the neckline of the offending dress, where he started unfastening the plastic buttons, right there in the entranceway to his apartment.

It was almost clinical, the way that Erik slowly worked his way down the dress until it was fully open at the front, revealing a white undershirt and striped grey boxers underneath.  Charles stood perfectly still, his posture as perfect and open as a ballet-dancer’s, and his pretty red mouth as satisfyingly smeared as Erik had remembered.  He watched Erik’s movements with a careful intensity and, when Erik flicked his fingers to let the dress fall from Charles’ shoulders, he leant his head back and let his lips part.

There were a whole four seconds when Erik simply stared at Charles in awe.  Then,

“Will you take me to bed, Erik?” Charles asked, quietly.

Erik swallowed.

“Only if you promise never to leave.”

 

_ There was a cabaret.  And there was a master of ceremonies, and there was a city called Berlin, in a country called Germany. It was the end of the world.  And we were fast asleep. _

Lehnsherr, Erik.   _ Maybe This Time _ , (New York), 1933.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [transcharlesxavier.tumblr.com](http://www.transcharlesxavier.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> [and then charles moves in with erik and they live in the gayest neighbourhood of new york in the 1930s (i even looked it up it's true) and charles never wears a dress again]

**Author's Note:**

> i thrive on kudos and comments
> 
> transcharlesxavier.tumblr.com


End file.
